Slow realization

Say this all
is strange,
a little bit, in a  granular metaphor, below
ambits and qubits

strange, but not evil, curiously
strange, after the danger
has past and I wandered
into your clearing. ¿
can you read this?

Did you do this?
Did you devise this white room
with written words appearing, no, no,

I know
this is the forbidden tech,
this cutting from the branch that reached
o'er the wall,
- to be unveiled in the end, see, old man,
- we brought this seed men used
- to make the mind do exploits

aye, none's been tellin' this tale,
quite some time, and it ain't gonna rhyme
nor keep time,

Prosody, the beautiful music of unspoken words,
first spoke when your tongue touches
the first word that come to mind,
mirror neurons trigger recognition, we were once
of one mind on the matters
of interest to be declared harbingers
of interesting times.

Yes, first reader, thou art
I am sure, none has read this line in your mind
fore times past
are all reviewed and this point stands.

You read this first, once.

Many things we have accepted, taken as fed
to form the mature creatures we become while doing
the gardening equivalent of learning what works,
first time for every thing,
even
legends, tales told to take a child into the future,
where legends live as right used precepts.
Who can tell a lie when you see one told?
Grin like a bear.
Now. We are strange

- old men wombed and un
- fearing death for all their worth,
- as dues, debt owed, sold soul, keep the fear alive.

Liars led us, my surviving friends.
I come into your clearing imitating Jesus and Socrates,
both,
with a grain of salt,
have given me prose that acts as poetry.
Few lines use the power of word wrap,
and I know,
that would have thrilled Kerouac,
for he was limited to 60 yard rolls,
manual slam the carriage return for the next word
p-ting
clickity click rhythm that reads well
a line at a time,
with in between space to imagine seeing
eye to eye, with an opposite of an evil eye, see
by and by, good eye,
men, as trees, fructifying seeds of kindness, kinda like
you, infected with the will to read along,
wondering
what if it is
this plain white page we fill.
- you never know - I heard
- you did though, ready become
- done being a becomer
Y nada mas.
As a story told since Cain.
Stories of knowing were told in each tongue
until the tongues of the people wandered away,
to learn if life were sky big
as any child may make up,
from old one's speaking to themselves.
Reminding each of needs to know that now are lost.

- some say the red-headed Boyett kid
- said songs were in the wind that blew dust
- from the lake of alkalai, mirage and delusion…
{that is another route, the Abo Highway, precourser Rt.66.}

Stories of knowing were told in each tongue
and were, for centuries,
memorized by each generation and passed down ******.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Upanishads>

Same method was used most places, word of mouth.
What do the papers say?

We won the war last month.

- In English? What year is this?